


I Don't Know (But I've Been Told!)

by mugsandpugs



Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Non-Mutant, Blackmail, Enemies to Friends, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, background magneto/gambit, backround rogue/wanda, snark and sass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-22 02:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13754379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: Private Alvers has just about had it with the Sergeant's lazy son. Unfortunately, Pietro has more dirt on the newbie than Lance knows.**** INCOMPLETE AND DISCONTINUED ***





	1. Chapter 1

Morning routine. Wake. Make bed. Flag ceremony. No breakfast until you drop and give them twenty- Alvers, your back is bending; that'll be twenty more.

The routine is monotonous and mind-numbing, and he never was good at taking orders or submitting to authority, but Lance has to admit it's better than where he came from. He makes pretty good money here- not a fortune, but a hell of a lot more than he made working shifts at the mall's corn dog stand. If the bigger dudes start getting too rough, there's actual consequences for it. They feed him regularly, and a lot. There's usually electricity and running water, except for on the rare occasions when storms knock down the power line. 

So long as nobody figures out that he's still underaged, and he manages to keep his trash-mouth shut when the Big Guys are shouting in his face, he should be pretty set for the next eight years or so. 

"Yo, Alvers!" Tolanski, a small, bugeyed Brooklyn guy in his unit, waved cheerfully. Lance still has no clue how someone so shrimpy-looking, limbs all bowed at weird angles, managed to pass all the physicals, but he's in a glass house himself and couldn't be throwing stones. He'd had to have his paperwork and IDs forged by an old housemate just to pass the age requirement, and had lied through his teeth when they probed into his serious migraine problems and mood issues. The army wanted perfection. _Everyone_ lied, a little. "Dare me to climb the flagpole and moon Sarge's house?" 

Lance, straightening up from his fortieth pushup, groaned tiredly and rubbed the feeling back into his wrists, palms grass-stained. "I thought you said the guy was a complete psychopath." 

"Mags? _Naaaaah._ Oh, sure, he's the scariest guy you'll ever meet in your life, but not in the hammers and chainsaws type of way. Nah, he just looks at you and your soul melts out of your ass, is all." 

"And you want to moon _him_? Can't you wait until after breakfast before you get us killed, at least?" 

Tolanski, his huge, flat feet on the end of twiggy legs working double-time to keep up with Lance's swagger, blew a loud raspberry at Lance, sticking the thumb of his webbed hand into his ear and waggling his fingers. 

"Hi, guys." This was from Dukes, an enormous, blobby boy from Texas. Dukes was always getting busted for being the slowest runner in the camp, but his strength more than made up for it. The guy was a _beast_ when he got going. 

"Freddie!" In one agile bound, Tolanski had leapt upon the boy's shoulders as though scaling a mountain. Fred didn't even seem to notice the additional hundred pounds he now carried; he just continued to walk on like the tank he was. "We're gonna moon the sarge. After breakfast." 

"'We'?" Lance questioned, an amused smirk quirking his mouth as he loped along. The base was so hilly and green; it was pretty enough to be in a painting, but even just walking from point A to point B could be quite a workout in itself. "Don't rope me into your weird games." 

"Coward!"

As they crested the huge hill, Lance felt his snarky retort die on his lips. They'd reached the flagpole, alright, the stars and stripes, large as a bedsheet, snapping merrily in the mid-morning breeze, but it was neither exercise nor patriotism for the red, white, and blue that had Lance's heart _doing things_ inside his chest. Instead, it was five feet, eleven inches of _trouble._

Pietro Maximoff, sixteen-year-old son of Sargent Maximoff, he of the soul-melting-through-ass infamy, had dragged a lawn chair out onto the field and into a patch of sunlight where he basked like a cat, platinum blonde- no, really it was more _white-_ hair fluttering softly in the breeze. He wore enormous aviator sunglasses that obscured his shocking blue eyes, but Lance got the distinct impression the lounging boy was watching Unit 2 complete _their_ morning exercises, an appreciative smirk on his lips and a silver eyebrow raised sardonically. 

He knew he shouldn't look. But damn; there was a lot to see. The boy was all legs and cocky attitude. And he was more leg than usual today, in cutoffs so artfully distressed that it was almost hard to tell they alone probably cost over a hundred dollars. Lance's eyes followed smooth, olive-toned calf and to the graceful curve of hip peeking sneakily over the edge that he missed the exact moment Pietro's attention turned to him. 

"Hey!" he snapped his fingers as though summoning a trained dog. "You. Sweaty one. Come here." 

Lance looked around. He must have stalled in his walk, because Fred and Todd were already several paces ahead of him. There was simply nobody else Pietro could be addressing. "What do you want?" he asked, puzzled. Was he about to be called out for checking him out?

"There's a mini-fridge in my house," he pointed to the open screen door of the home he shared with his father and his twin sister. "Grab me a soda, will you?" 

Lance blinked slowly, the words so bizarre that he was having trouble processing. "... Excuse me?" 

"Make it quick." Pietro rolled over onto his stomach, raising the hem of his tight t-shirt to better tan his back, looking for all the world like someone enjoying a trip to the beach. _Oh my God,_ Lance realized, shocked at the bald-faced shittiness of the demand. _He's actually serious._

Lance had _issues_ with authority. All his teachers said so. It didn't exactly make him a good candidate for the army, but his self preservation kept his mouth shut. For the most part. But now someone he absolutely did not have to answer to issuing orders like he was some trained pet? 

"Fuck you!" Lance snarled, annoyed beyond belief. 

Pietro turned back to look at him, and even lowered his sunglasses so he could regard the private with new attention. "I mean," he said, a curl of humor in his voice as he looked Lance up and down. "If you're offering, sure, but soda first."

And now he was _joking_ about it?! This guy's arrogance was something else. If he were anyone else, Lance would have stormed in to kick his ass by now, but as the guy wasn't even _in_ the army, just living on base, that would probably count as assaulting a civilian. Sometimes the rules that kept him safe were also the rules that inconvenienced him most of all. 

Pietro watched him like a cat might watch an interesting insect, curious to see what he might do next. Lance's balled fists actually shook at his sides. 

"You think you can just lie there and order us around, like just because _daddy_ is some big shot, we're all your slaves?" 

"Pretty much, yeah. Pretty slaves." He made a show of trailing his eyes over Lance's well-muscled arms. Lance ground his teeth as his legendary temper took over. 

"Why don't you take your lazy ass out and _go to hell,_ because I'm never doing _shit_ for you! Lying there while we do all the work.. You make me sick! Like _you've_ ever managed to do half the shit we do every day." He raised both middle fingers at the teen and stormed off before he really did try to throw a punch. His ears burned red with frustration when he heard the soft sound of the boy's startled laughter follow him on the breeze. 

* * *

Of course they scheduled the obstacle course right after a huge and carb-filled lunch. Two privates had puked already from the strain. And it was a real doozy; sandbags and mudpits; climbing rock-walls and jumping through tires. Lance's muscles wept and begged him to give up; at this point he was motivated by pure spite and stubbornness. Todd had collapsed in the mud-pit two miles back, groaning a soft, " _Leave me here to die._ " 

"Not allowed to do that," Fred reminded his little buddy, and had expertly lifted him in the correct soldier's carry that would no doubt earn him bonus points on the excercise. Lance had continued on ahead of them. He was still so _pissed_ about his earlier encounter with the sergeant's son that his every move was fueled by it. _Who does he think he is..._

He grunted painfully as he attempted to climb the rockwall. Yikes; his arms were so overworked that he doubted they'd support him anymore. His boots were heavy and his clothes were soaked; everything hurt already. He'd be dead-stiff by tomorrow; barely able to roll out of bed. He wouldn't have a choice. He let out an exhausted huff and rested his face on a rock. He was tired enough that it could make a satisfactory pillow. Then- 

"'Scuse me." In a blur of teal and silver, a graceful, bounding, gazelle-like shape scrabbled up the rockwall, making the motion look effortless, and down the other side before continuing on. He moved so lightly; his feet barely seemed to touch the ground. 

Pietro Maximoff was running the obstacle course with him, and he was making it look like the easiest thing in the world long after all the others had failed. 

Lance felt his jaw drop, and then his exhausted body gave out, and he collapsed in the dirt. 

* * *

It felt like he'd only just managed to close his eyes before a nearby voice was jerking them open again. The barracks were full to the brim of Unit 1 boys, all sleeping deeply after their exhausting day. In the bunk above him, Todd slept like the dead. To his left, Fred snored deeply. 

The voice came again. 

"- said you owe me an apology, _Private Alvers._ " 

Moonlight through the open window illuminated Pietro Maximoff's silver hair, making it glow like milk. He leaned his hip against the steel support of Lance's bed and looked down at him, like some amused, vain God. 

"What... the fuck..." Lance whispered, absolutely lost for words. If this guy was gonna start invading his dreams now, too, he was gonna be _so_ pissed.

"I'll repeat it again, since it must be such a challenge going through life so terribly slow. You. Owe. Me. An. Apology. Also a soda, but I guess I'll let that slide. I don't drink sugar this late at night." 

"Do you get off on this?" Lance asked disbelievingly. He was too sore from today's strenuous exercise to even lift his head, but this guy- this guy that completed the entire obstacle course without seeming to break a sweat long after all the actual squad had collapsed. Yet here he now stood, looking fresh as a daisy. "On making me miserable?" 

"Honestly, kind of. You're kinda hot when you're mad. But even if I didn't, it's the principal of the thing. You can't call me lazy now; I'm faster than all of you and I haven't even been _trained._ I don't get by on 'daddy's anything. So. Apology, please." He held his hand out as though expecting Lance to place it there like a tangible thing. 

With extreme difficulty, Lance forced his aching body to sit up and repressed a groan at the effort. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," he said, with feeling. "I don't owe you shit. Now get out, before you get caught in here." 

Pietro's eyes flashed, and he smiled, striding forwards. He walked with such a sway in his hips- even now, Lance had trouble looking away when the lithe figure sidled into bed, pressed into his chest. He smelled clean, a little sharp. "But if I did," he grinned. "Who would _really_ be getting into trouble here?" he walked his fingers up Lance's collarbone, and Lance's mind went a little fuzzy around the edges. It was hard to think when he had a lap full of Pietro. "I mean, I'm the only one here who knows you're only seventeen, so--" 

Pure shock broke through the haze. Lance sputtered, wheezing aloud like a drowning man. "You _what-_ " 

"Shhhh! Don't want your secret to get out! That'd get you kicked out for sure, and you'd _never_ be then able to join any branch of the military again, not for your whole life. Pretty harsh way to end your career, don't you think?" 

He must literally, actually be the devil. There was no other explanation. Nobody had ever told Lance the devil would be so pretty, though.

Pietro made himself comfortable on Lance's lap, reaching to scratch his nails lightly over Lance's buzzcut-brown hair. His lips brushed Lance's jaw when he pouted, sending little sparklers of electricity wherever contact was made. "All I want is a sorry." 

"Why do you even _care?_ " 

Pietro actually stopped to consider the question, just for a second. "Maybe I'm bored. Maybe I like you. Maybe you hit a sore spot. Maybe I don't like being underestimated." 

Those actually sounded like pretty honest answers. Lance's arm had, as if by instinct, settled around the trim waist. He resisted the urge to nuzzle his nose in the back of a swanlike neck-- _don't cuddle the enemy, Alvers!_ \-- and replied, with equal honestly, "I'm so sorry I underestimated you." 

He felt the bump of cheekbone against his neck when Pietro smiled, big and toothy. "That's all I wanted to hear. Your secret's safe with me, cutie." He pressed his lips to Lance's cheek, and Lance couldn't help it- he groaned, reached, wanted... 

His lips met air. Pietro was already slinking off of Lance's lap and striding back for the door. He offered Lance a little wave. 

"I'll be seeing you around, Alvers. You're too much fun to be done with yet." 

And then he was gone, leaving Lance to stare at the door as it swung closed for a full minute before gingerly settling back down in his bed. 

_What,_ he thought, staring up at the slats of Todd's bunk. _The_ entire _fuck._ " 

The place where Pietro had kissed tingled.


	2. The Lord Don't Like It (But the Devil Don't Mind)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> January 2019 update: Originally, these "chapters" were two different works in the same series. I decided to put them both into the same story, because I don't think I'll be writing any more of this AU. It seemed pointless to have a whole SERIES for what is essentially the same (unfinished) story.

When Lance saw Fred talking with the Sergeant's son in the mess hall, he stopped walking so suddenly that Todd crashed into his back.

"What's the holdup!" squeaked the smaller man, craning to peer around Lance's arm. It took him a second to see what had his friend so agitated. 

"Weird, yo. Freddie's _smiling_." 

Lance had been too busy scowling at Pietro to notice Fred's expression, but now he saw that Todd was right: Fred's soft face was bunched into a genuine beam; cheeks obscuring his eyes, dimples showing. He laughed at something the much shorter boy said and clapped him on the arm with his big paw, then caught him when that made him stumble. He giggled an apology. 

Lance growled low in his throat. He just _knew_ this must be some sort of game. No doubt Pietro was only pretending to be friendly with Fred so he could turn right around and make fun of him. The other cadets had done the exact same thing before Lance kicked a few asses and claimed Fred and Todd as his own. 

"I swear I'm gonna murder him," he snarled, and his tray creaked in his hands, threatening to snap under the force he applied. 

"You can't." Todd sounded equally worried. "You said he knows your secret, remember?" 

"He can't squeal if he's _dead._ " Lance spoke with more conviction than he felt, watching Fred lope towards them, oblivious to everyone who had to scurry out of his path or risk being trampled underfoot. He tried to force a smile. "Hey, Dukes. What's up?" 

"Oh, nothin'. Pietro and I were just talkin'." 

Huh. So they were on a first-name basis already? Fred really was too friendly for his own good. Lance and Fred would have to have another talk on the difference between friends and enemies soon. 

He pressed against Fred’s side and looped an arm around Todd’s neck as they made their way to their wobbly table by the garbage cans, letting anyone who looked their way know exactly what they risked if they messed with his boys. They were trash, but they were trash who stuck _together._

When they sat, Lance aggressively dunked his bread into his soup and ripped off a chunk with his teeth, still scowling in Pietro’s direction. 

"What, uh, what was Maximoff talkin' to you about, buddy?" Todd asked, swirling a fishstick in ketchup. 

“Aw, different stuff.” Fred smiled happily, recalling the conversation. “He said he found an armadillo wandering ‘round camp. Said since I know the most about animals, I should keep an eye out for her.” 

It should have surprised Lance that Pietro knew of Fred's animal-loving ways, but it didn't. He was beginning to suspect there wasn't much on base kept secret from the troublemaker. 

As though reading Lance's mind, he looked up just at that moment, all the way across the crowded mess hall, met Lance's eyes, and blew a kiss. 

The plastic fork in Lance's hand snapped as he felt a burn of shame cover his face... and a tiny, secret thrill sparking his chest. 

"Huh," Todd observed, vaguely impressed, mumbling through a mouth of fishstick. "How the turn tables." 

* * *

"I want you to go out with me." 

Lance nearly banged his head on the sink, which he was crouched beneath scrubbing the bathroom tiles as punishment for a little wager gone wrong with the boys. Cursing, the sting of ammonia making his eyes water, he withdrew. 

Pietro had such a talent for picking the absolute worst times to talk. Lance was beginning to think he was doing it on purpose. And he looked pris _tine,_ too, if a little obscene, in very short shorts and a t-shirt several sizes too small showing that his slight build could hold more than its fair share of wiry muscle.

" _Hey_ to you, too," Lance said bitterly, feeling like week-old garbage left out in the sun. His camo pants were soaked through with dirty water, and there was still so much cleaning left to do. " _How's your day going, Lance? Have you been threatened lately_?" 

Pietro waved this off like a pesky fly. "You and me. The Gambit. Tonight." 

"I don't know what that is, but no. Definitely not. You know I can't go off base." 

"Yes, because you're s _oooo_ good at following rules, aren't you? What did you and your nerd crew do this time, stick a bomb down one of the toilets?" 

"It wasn't a _bomb,_ it was a sparkler." But okay, point taken. Lance watched the sixteen-year-old sit primly on the edge of the freshly cleaned sink as though it were a throne, slender legs kicking idly. He looked like he was rather enjoying the sight of Lance cleaning on his knees.

"Don't offer to help me out or anything," Lance grumbled. 

"Okay! I won't." From his shorts pocket, Pietro withdrew a grape tootsie pop, considered it briefly, then began unwrapping it. "Anyway, so you should meet me, ten after light's out. I'll show you how to get there." 

This guy was unbelievable. Lance scoffed, shoulders working as he scrubbed hard at a stubborn boot-print on the tile floor. "Again: no. Not happening. Nice try, though." 

"Sad. I guess you don't like being here after all." Pietro gave his lollipop a considering lick, his small pink tongue wrapping briefly around the candy as he made direct eye-contact with the boy beneath him. "Guess poor old Father will have his heart broken when he hears of underaged recruits breaking the law--" 

"Oh _come on!_ " Lance protested, throwing his scrub-brush in disgust. "You can't hang my age over my head _forever._ " 

"I can until you turn eighteen in October." Pietro didn't look the least bit abashed as he slipped lightly off the counter, cheeks hollowing over his candy- and wasn't _that_ a sight Lance probably shouldn't be staring at! His face heated. Pietro's smirk was poignant as an acid spill. "Until then... you want me to keep your secret? You do what I tell you. And I'm _telling_ you that _we_ are going out tonight." 

He patted Lance lightly on the head as though he were a dog as he sauntered past him and, when Lance's jaw dropped to snarl an angry protest, Pietro pulled the candy from his lips with a pop and placed it lightly on Lance's tongue instead, waving before slipping out the door. 

Lance wished he could say his eyes weren't glued to the boy's shorts as he slunk cheerfully away. 

* * *

The Gambit, as it turned out, was a run-down looking little bar not five miles from the army base, dusty and isolated in the rolling hills and, farther off, the densely wooded forest where the wolves were beginning to howl. 

" _This_ is what you were jonesing to get to?" Lance asked dubiously. It didn't look so special. About two stories high with cracked windows illuminated with strings of colorful lights, it didn't even look particularly busy. The music pouring through the cracked windows was different- smoky; exciting even- but it hardly seemed worth the risk of getting kicked out of the army for.

To Lance’s surprise, the expression Pietro shot his way was not coy or flirty, but genuinely pissed. “ _Yes,_ it is.” 

“Oookay…” 

They’d had to squeeze under a fence and outfox what felt like a dozen sentry guards just to make it here. Lance was pretty sure he still had bits of cobweb in his ear. Yet, when Pietro took his arm and hauled him into the dimly lit the bar, he couldn’t help but admire the inherent coolness of the place. It looked like an old-timey speakeasy, or something. 

"Hey, cher." A husky, accented voice emanated from the dark, causing Lance to jump. "Your sister's here already. Who's your friend?" 

Pietro offered a lazy, two-fingered salute to the trenchcoat-clad man lounging behind the bar, feet up and crossed next to the cash register, a cowl pulled low over his eyes and an eight-ball glass in one long-fingered hand. 

"Hey, Remy. This is _Private Alvers._ Thought I might try to show him a good time." 

"No better place to come for it, sugar." He sat his drink down and looked up, fixing Lance with a pair of eyes such an odd shade of brown that they looked red in the dim light. He smiled, slow and burning, and Lance... Well. Lance _blushed._ The guy, who looked to be in his late thirties, was smooth as a fox. 

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Private Alvers. Name's LeBeau, but friends call me Remy. Welcome to The Gambit." He offered Lance a strong handshake and oozed from his perch, rolling to the beaded curtain in the back, from which the accordion and piano music emanated. He held the beads aside for the boys, apparently unbothered that they were both blatantly too young to even _be_ in a bar. When he winked at Lance, Lance had to look away in a hurry. 

He said something in a different language to Pietro and Pietro, smirking and flicking his eyes over Lance, responded in kind, leaving the teenager with the distinct impression that he was being appraised.

"Were you two speaking French?" Lance asked, impressed despite himself when Pietro returned to his side, leading him to a booth that had a good view of the dance floor. _Were you two talking about me?_ he didn't ask. 

"Yeah. He's Cajun. You know, bayou, New Orleans?" Pietro pronounced it with a drawl. _N'awlins._

"Huh." _Cool..._ He couldn't wait to tell Todd and Fred all about this. Before he'd left Deerfield, where he was the most 'exotic' (and therefore, most suspicious) foster boy by virtue of being half-Greek, Lance's experience with different cultures was extremely limited to small-town mentality. Easily one of the coolest things about being in the army was being able to meet people from all over the states.

Wanda Maximoff, Pietro's twin sister, was on the dance floor, swaying with a shorter girl who seemed to be part of the goth/punk scene. Wanda was just as strikingly beautiful as her brother and father, but she intimidated Lance too much to approach. She looked like the type of girl who would bite for the jugular. 

She wasn't looking quite so harsh now, though. When her dance partner smiled up at her and brushed her short, dark hair behind one multi-pierced ear, Wanda's flush looked downright _tender._

"I didn't know your sister was-" Lance began without thinking, and then stopped himself. "Uh." 

_"Gay?"_ Pietro snorted, direct as a thin, silver knife. "You can say the word, you know. It's not a swear." 

"I k-know," Lance stuttered, trying to regain his ground. "I'm. I'm not... you know I'm-" 

"You're bi as hell, but you grew up in some shitty, back-woods town that had you repressing it like anyone might accuse you of witchcraft and burn you at the stake?" 

"I'm." How he kept managing to leave Lance so tongue-tied, the boy would never know. "I just." 

Pietro patted his arm. "It's okay. You wouldn't be the first closet-case I've helped to bloom." 

"I'm _not_ a-" 

Remy returned with their drinks. Lance pounded a shot and then, making eye-contact with the attractive Cajun man, said, "Hey Remy? I'm b-bisexual." 

He'd almost managed to get the word out without stuttering. 

Remy's smile quirked. He patted Lance's shoulder like he might a puppy who'd just learned a new trick. "I know, cher. I have eyes." 

Before Lance could ask what _that_ was supposed to mean, he caught a glimpse of Pietro's expression. The boy had his head lowered, but his eyes sparkled, his mouth quirked in, not a smirk, but a genuine little smile. 

Lance's heart did a Thing. It was not a particularly comfortable Thing. Must have been the whiskey. The expression disappeared as abruptly as it'd arrived, and Pietro was back to his untouchable, model-fierce implacability. 

Lance took another shot.

"I _love_ this song," Remy beamed, and reached with a remote to turn the sound system up. It didn't seem much different than what had been playing previously, but the dancing girls cheered when Remy joined them, swaying and rolling his muscled shoulders as though he were no older than they. 

"Well?!" Pietro snapped, drawing Lance's attention. The private blinked. 

"Well _what?_ " 

"Are you gonna ask me to dance, or are you just going to sit there like a lump on a log?" 

"Oh, no. I don't know how to-" Lance faltered at Pietro's scowl and looked back to the floor. Remy had weaseled his way into the arms of the two and dipped the strange goth girl, her two-toned hair brushing the floor before he lifted her back and spun her into Wanda. They weren't exactly dancing stars themselves, but it looked _fun._ Warm; familiar. 

... And Pietro was watching them, looking pouty and moody. 

Lance stood and offered his hand. "Would you do me the, uh, honor?" _Hell,_ he was bad at this. 

For the second time that night, Pietro's smile was as true as it was dazzling. Lance briefly forgot his own _name_ as his hand was taken. He thought of the artificial taste of grape candy as soft fingers laced his callused ones. 

"Hi!" Lance shouted over the zydeco, when they approached and the two girls gave him appraising looks. "I'm Lance." 

"I know." 

Wanda Maximoff's blue eyes, just like her father's, seared into Lance's soul like searchlights, seeming to unearth his every unsavory deed or thought from the shadows. He resisted the urge to look away. "I know all the new recruits." 

Huh. "We've never talked." 

"Did we ever have a reason to?" 

Pietro put himself between his sister and Lance. "Be nice, assface," he chided. "This one's my shiny new toy." 

Lance didn't like the sound of that. He opened his mouth to protest, but Wanda beat him to it. 

"Yes, he looks like the perfect type to really make Father angry," she assessed. "Good choice." 

"I thought so." Pietro looked pleased. 

Was _that_ what this was all about? Lance felt oddly... deflated. He didn't want to dance anymore. 

He met eyes with the goth girl, who sighed and shook her head. "I love you two," she told the twins. She had a pleasantly husky voice and a faint southern twang. "But y'all and your family dramas are awful. Look; now you've gone an' made him sad." 

She turned and offered Lance a gloved hand to shake. "My name's Rogue. Don't mind them, they just suck sometimes." 

Lance smiled a little wryly, shaking her hand and introducing himself. "Why do you hang out with them, then, if they suck so much?" 

"Wanda an' I started dating a few months back. I live in one of the neighboring towns." 

Maybe the fact that this bar was, apparently, entirely filled with minors was a feature, not a bug. Lance was tired of questioning it. "Honestly, I'd much rather dance with you than anyone else here," he said, maybe, _maybe_ wanting to sting Pietro a little. Rogue shot Wanda a little grin, and her date waved her off. 

"Go ahead then..." 

When Wanda took Remy's hands instead, Pietro was left without a partner. This didn't seem to bother him any; rather, he just climbed on an empty table- they were all empty- as though he'd been waiting for an opportunity and began gyrating, slipping his tight jeans further down on his angular hips. Wanda rolled her eyes; Remy gave a bemused snort. Apparently, this too was a regular occurance. It was hard not to watch him dance smooth and easy as a lynx. 

What a strange world Lance had found himself stumbling into. 

Abruptly, Pietro stilled, his gaze focused through one of the high, tinted windows. "Guys, he's coming." 

The atmosphere changed rapidly. 

Wanda, seizing Lance's arm in a painfully sharp grip, hauled him up a series of steps and into a small room- there was a bed, a lamp, a side-table... Wanda crammed Lance into the dusty closet and Pietro smashed in after them, closing the door almost all the way so that only a crack of light shone through. 

"What the hell!" Lance exclaimed, stuffed among Remy's clothes and shoes. A hand clamped over his mouth; he couldn't tell in the jumble which twin it was. 

"Father," Wanda hissed. "He comes here sometimes to make sure no soldiers left base without permission." 

"And to see Remy," Pietro added meaningfully. 

_Sargent Maximoff_ was here?! Oh; Lance was beyond dead. 

"Where's Rogue?" he asked, muffled, against the palm on his mouth. 

"A lookout. Father isn't good with ages. He'll assume she's twenty-one." Pietro sounded less than sure about this. Fantastic. 

There was a terse silence before footsteps approached; heavy and commanding, and then followed by Remy's slinkier steps. "I assure you," Remy laughed. "I'm keeping no stowaways in my boudoir, monsieur, but you _are_ welcome to check the bed with me if you like..." 

"Ugh," Wanda shuddered. Pietro shushed her. Lance held as still as he'd ever held in his life, eyes wide, and flinched when the sargent spoke in his cold, authoritative voice- the kind of voice that made soldiers salute and shout _sir, yes! Sir!_. 

"I know they're here, LeBeau. Though they're not _toddlers_ anymore. They should have learned long ago to stop running to you every time they have a quarrel with me. It's just childish." 

"Well, I _did_ half raise them, you know. They- and you- know the Gambit is as safe as their own home for them." 

"Funny. _I_ don't allow my children to drink- or _serve_ drinks- at home." 

"Now, Cher. You an' I were doing more 'n that when we were younger than they are now." 

"Forgive me if I want my children to have better than the _swill_ we grew up in." 

Lance could see them now; the sargent's impeccable posture as he glanced around the bedroom. His boots turned to face the closet, and Lance felt the twins flinch back in unison. 

As a distraction, Remy slunk to the sargent, resting a hand on his chest, tipping his head to smile, slow and lazy as honey, up at the silver-haired man. Magnus remained motionless, regarding him impassively. “It’s been some time since we've been alone like this, Magdaddy, hasn't it?” 

"You're related to Remy?" Lance whispered, surprised. 

The twins exchanged a _Look_ that was at once amused and exasperated. 

"Oh, sweetie." Pietro patted his shoulder condescendingly. Lance pulled away, confused and irritated. 

"I told you not to call me that anymore," Magnus snapped, echoing Lance's mood. He pulled from Remy's grasp. 

"Aw, cher." Remy cooed, but didn't approach again. "You ain’t still mad at me, are you? Shoo, that ole mess between us was over twenty years ago, now! We've made enough memories since then to more 'n make up for it, non?" 

"You were dishonorably discharged. You were _my_ responsibility and you disgraced my unit by... by... _gamboling._ " Magnus jerked away and spat the words like they were flames in his mouth. 

"We've been over this a hundred times. I was _drafted,_ monsieur. I never even wanted to _be_ there--" 

"So that makes it alright in your mind? LeBeau, you were the best hand-to-hand combatant I had. You let Logan and Hank and Raven and I down. If you'd been on the field, Charles wouldn't have--" 

Whatever ‘Charles’ wouldn't have done, Sargent Maximoff grew too agitated to say. He fell silent, appearing to grind his teeth together in a rage. He took several sharp, deep breaths through his nose, then forced himself to still. 

"Never mind. Tell my _son_ that if he doesn't wish to be arrested again, he shouldn't be seen in disreputable establishments such as yours. And tell my daughter that if _she,_ at least, intends to uphold the family tradition of military success, she'd best not follow in Pietro's footsteps and land herself in trouble, too." He spoke to Remy, but his voice was raised, carrying. 

_He knows,_ Lance was certain now. _He knows we're here. Why doesn't he bust us?_

"Oui, monsieur." Remy looked just the littlest bit uncomfortable as he saw Magnus off. Their footsteps echoed back down the stairs. The door opened, closed again; the sound of a car driving off made the trio sag in relief before rising to rejoin Rogue in the bar. 

Wanda approached the bartender and place a hand on his arm. "You gonna be okay, Rems?" she asked, voice unusually soft. 

He reached and gently stroked a hand through her dark hair. "As alright as I'm gonna be, darlin'." 

Lance glanced back at Pietro, who was studiously avoiding his gaze. Lance felt like he'd learned more about the Maximoff family in one evening out than he'd learned all his months prior living on the base. "So," he said casually. "You've been arrested, huh?" 

"Why do you ask?" Pietro scoffed, lifting his chin to defiantly meet Lance's gaze. "Does that make me damaged goods, now? Do you think I'm as useless as my Father thinks?" 

Lance privately thought that if Magnus Maximoff found his son so useless, he wouldn't be coming to look for him on a busy work night, but he kept that to himself, instead offering a smirk of his own. "Oh, no. I was just thinking that it makes you more interesting than ever. You should take me out more often."


End file.
